perseus
by Marmg
Summary: There are things that keep Clarke awake at night. Her guilt infused dreams, the absent heat in her bones, the stars, Bellamy Blake. And when he pulls back, leans his head against hers, sighs tiny puffs of air into her mouth, she knows that's not about to change.


Clarke is curled into herself. Her arms cage her chest, her thighs guard her belly, her river dam eyelids hold back tears threatening to break through.

It's easy to occupy her mind during the day. There's herbs to scavenge, animals to hunt, mouths to feed, treaties to maintain, people to integrate, a life to build in this strange new world. And, for the most part, Clarke is in charge of it all. Lately she's been questioning why.

At night, when the world around her is quiet, it's even easier to keep her brain whirring. But not with thoughts she wants to think about, _needs_ to think about. She'll hear Raven exhale in her sleep, be reminded of the gush of air, Finn's last breath, tickling her ear as she slides a knife into his stomach. The light from the moon will shine through the tent, cast shadows on the dirt floor, and even when she closes her eyes, its radiance will remind Clarke of Tondc, alive with fire, fueled by the corpses of a thousand people. Because of the missile she did not warn them about. Because of the missile she ran away from and watched engulf an entire village in flames. Because of _her_.

Her mother's face, livid, unbelieving, stares back at Clarke in her sleep. Bellamy, beaten, bruised, bleeding, stumbles from Mount Weather and through her brain. Octavia, betrayed. Raven, pitying. Clarke's dreams are death. Her dreams are regret. Her dreams are her friends screaming disappointment and sorrow. So most nights she decides not to dream at all.

She pulls on her jacket, makes sure its zipped, slips from the tent she shares with three other girls, and roams. Most nights Clarke finds herself laying on one of the benches around Camp Jaha's dormant bonfire. She admires the night sky, searches desperately for constellations she can never recognize, tries to remember her life, her sanctuary, among the stars. And other times she admires _him_ – Bellamy – patrolling the perimeter, gun strapped across his shoulder, trying to scout out potential danger but being distracted by the sky. Just like her.

Clarke wonders if he misses their home the way she does. If he remembers looking out his window, watching the Ark twist and turn in dead space, imagining what it would be like to breathe fresh air on Earth, pluck flowers from its soil, drown in its oceans. The Ark is on the ground now – their crash-land home – but its not the same. Or maybe they're not the same. They've outgrown its metal walls and steel floors, the colorless, metallic, stagnant life it has to offer. They belong to the land now. To the grass and the mud and the lakes and the trees. To a brave new world.

It's been almost 48 hours since the last time Clarke surrendered herself to her nightmares. Visions of blood on her hands, ringing in her ears, guilt in her heart. The kind of night terrors you wake up from in a cold sweat with a heart beating faster than the wings of a bird. The kind made even worse when you remember they're real. They happened. But staying awake is not as easy without the crap coffee the Ark used to provide. It's a wonder she's made it this long at all. But Clarke's reached the point where she's so exhausted she's awake, and she's sure she could drift away if she let herself, but she could have sworn she finally spotted the constellation Perseus in the night and is intent on finding him again.

"Clarke." She snaps her gaze from the sky, turns her attention to the person standing over her. Bellamy. "What are you doing out here?" he asks her.

She allows herself to get lost in his eyes, just for a second. Big and round, dark but light, filled with an emotion she can't quite place her finger on. Bellamy's eyes are an entirely different world. A world she can fall into forever, one she can sink through and see the galaxies from in a brand new way. Clarke forces herself to look away, to pick up the speed of her honey-slow heart.

"I could ask you the same thing," she tells him. "You're not on patrol tonight."

She sees him smirk from the corner of her eye. His hands are dug deep into his pockets to protect them from the autumn chill, a cold Clarke's body hadn't registered until now.

"What, have you memorized my rotations?" he teases, and Clarke hopes he doesn't notice the flicker of embarrassment that washes across her face.

"It's my business to know," is her excuse and, thankfully, he accepts it.

"Seriously, Clarke. It's the middle of the night. It's freezing. You should get to bed."

She rolls her eyes at him, then tries to resume her search for Perseus. "Why are you out here, Bellamy?" she asks. She hopes she doesn't sound too curious, hopes she's feigning enough indifference to maintain her cool.

His reply is mumbled, and Clarke almost has to ask him to repeat himself. "Can't sleep."

She hums her understanding.

He sits down beside the bench Clarke has claimed as hers, his legs pretzeled together and his knees pulled up to his chin. From where she's laying, Clarke can feel the tickle of his matted hair against her temple. She doesn't bother pulling away. They sit in companionable silence, Bellamy pinpointing planets, Clarke struggling to make her breathing even under the false pretense of being dazzled by the constellations. Her hair ripples down the sides of the bench, knotted waves that feather down Bellamy's cheek when she shifts, and she's conscious of the short, sharp breaths he's taking, of the tensing of his shoulders, of the lack of leniency in his spine. She's hyper-aware of her own sporadic oxygen intake, of the heat radiating between the half inch keeping them apart, of the tightness in her throat when she tries to think of something to say.

And then she sees it. Perseus. 6 stars scattered above Bootes and Ursa Major. 6 stars to Cassiopeia's right. Clarke can just make out two legs and a torso, maybe an arm if she really tries. She imagines the grounders showing him to their young, using him to give them signs. She imagines the humans that inhabited Earth a hundred years before, laying on their roofs, in their backyards, in the back of their pickup trucks holding a lover's hand, finding him, their hearts thumping with finality because they've managed to pick him out of the million other lights, all of the other ursas and minors hovering above them in the vastness of space. She imagines herself now, as she is, the future of the human race, tucking Perseus away in her heart until she can share him with someone else. So the constellations will be remembered throughout the entirety of humanity.

Clarke turns her head to Bellamy. "I found Perseus," she says. Her voice is low, soft, but he hears her. "Yeah?" There's only a whisper of breath between them. She's mindful of his eyes darting to her lips, the way he slowly licks his own. He meets her eyes. Her eyes, growing heavy with sleep, sea-blue hid in the blackness, finding the stars in his own. "They say Perseus was the first hero," he murmurs. "Killed Medusa. Rescued Adromeda from Cetus."

Clarke leans closer to him. Their noses graze. Electricity sizzles up and down her spine. She doesn't know if it's the deprivation of sleep or the deprivation of warmth or the deprivation of his mouth pressed against hers that has her shivering, but it's hardly a shudder she minds. "Yeah?" she asks.

Bellamy nods. Their parted lips brush. Bellamy is on his knees and Clarke is on her side and his warm hands cradle her frozen cheeks. And he kisses her.

There are things that keep Clarke awake at night. Her guilt infused dreams, the absent heat in her bones, the stars, Bellamy Blake. And when he pulls back, leans his head against hers, sighs tiny puffs of air onto her mouth, she knows that's not about to change.

"Go to sleep, Clarke."

She'll try.


End file.
